


like japanese bread (snapshots from hasetsu)

by MaroMaro



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Contemplative trash, M/M, Sneaky POV Switching, Yuri!!! on Ice Shit Bang 2017, because Yuri, non-explicit sexual references, outsider pov, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 13:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11968335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaroMaro/pseuds/MaroMaro
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky has just unintentionally announced his recent sexual debut by way of walking into the communal dining area with subtle, yet recognisable tenderness – if you know what you're looking for. And Viktor apparently knows that walk.Or - four skaters hang out in Hasetsu before ice show commitments eat their lives.





	like japanese bread (snapshots from hasetsu)

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! I participated in a Bang! It's very exciting and I hope y'all enjoy this mostly uncontroversial fluff entry. Art will be inserted once I have it to insert!
> 
> It is set the summer after canon, and I have Chosen Not to Use Archive Warnings so don't @ me.

**like japanese bread (snapshots from hasetsu)**

 

 

_That morning after  
_

 

 

It's mid-June in Hasetsu and the rainy season is in full swing, plit-plitting against the windows of Yutopia Akatsuki. Four globally-ranked figure skaters are sitting around a kotatsu, sipping away at green tea in relative silence. To a casual observer, they could be seen as though to be enjoying the sound of the rain and the smells of traditional Japanese breakfast foods, treats for the senses that help even the most reluctant of morning people greet the day.

 

The reality, however, is that they are sitting in awkward silence. This is because Yuri Plisetsky has just unintentionally announced his recent sexual debut by way of walking into the communal dining area with subtle, yet recognisable tenderness – if you know what you're looking for. And Viktor apparently knows that walk.

 

Otabek doesn't require any such announcement, having been present and very much involved in the aforementioned debut. He had enthusiastically and, he thinks, very efficiently done the deed without paying any mind to the rink time booked in their names at Ice Castle Hasetsu starting this very morning; rink time that would probably be best utilised by someone who isn't smarting from their first foray into penetrative sex.

 

You live, you learn.

 

Yuri quietly informs the pair across the table that he will not be skating today. He stares at Viktor and Yuuri over the top of his tea cup, just daring them to say something.

 

“That's okay, Yuri,” Viktor replies, too chipper for a man potentially about to be murdered. “When Yuuko asks about your absence, we will be sure to pass on the news of your tragic and unspecified soreness!”

 

Yuri throws a piece of pickled daikon at him. Otabek hides his face in one hand, and pokes Yuri in the knee with the other.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The night before  
_

 

 

“You know,” Yuri says, breaking a tranquil silence. “I don't think I ever thought I'd have sex for the first time in a like, traditional Japanese hotel room thing.”

 

Otabek's body, curled behind Yuri in their cramped position in the bathtub, jerks softly as a chuckle escapes his lips. “Not even at the height of your Katsuki crush?” he inquires. He presses a kiss to Yuri's shoulder, a preemptive gesture of goodwill at the accusation.

 

“I really fucking regret telling you about that.” Yuri's body feels tense, and he winces as he leans forward to give himself space to twist around and face Otabek. “I never actually thought about fucking him, Beka,” he continues. “It was... whatever. Not like this.”

 

“I know, Yura,” Otabek says quietly. “I'm just teasing you. Come back here.”

 

Yuri settles back into his original position; no easy feat when Japanese bathtubs are deliciously deep but crushingly short. An acknowledgment that the communal onsen is hardly the most appropriate place to soak after sex means that Yuri's back is pressed up against Otabek's chest. His legs, occasionally needing to move, are stretched out of the water, feet pressed against the wall. It's not unpleasant, but Yuri is nevertheless looking forward to a proper, spacious soak tomorrow.

 

Unless, of course, they choose to have another private bath after indulging in more private things. Yuri feels a bit raw and delicate but he had a great time and they'll definitely be doing it again, _thank you very much._

 

He assumes Otabek is thinking along similar lines, because there are kisses being dropped onto his shoulders, neck, jaw, and Yuri is in heaven.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_A few days later_

 

 

Yuuri sits and considers quietly the boy beside him. Yuri is remarkably sedate today, and seems to be enjoying watching the rain from their safe perch on some of the inn's sheltered, outdoor decking. He briefly recalls the other's reasonably successful attempts at waterfall meditation the previous year and wonders if sometimes he underestimates Yuri's ability to chill out.

 

Otabek seems to help with that – Otabek, who seems to have an endless supply of chill, to the point that you don't notice the absurdity of his making internet headlines by riding away into the Barcelona sunset with a rescued Russian teenager. Yuri has also mentioned once, twice, maybe a million times that Otabek is a DJ, and frankly that seems unimaginable, although Yuuri has to assume this is true. Otabek is nowhere to be seen, however.

 

“I told him it was going to rain and he said some shit about running in the rain being liberating. So, you know, I guess he's feeling really liberated right about now,” Yuri says, affection hiding behind a scowl.

 

Yuuri wonders if he should try to respond in Russian, even though the conversation was started in English. In an exhaustive effort to not be a burden at a rink full of people who have told him time and time again that he _isn't and never will be_ , Yuuri tries to speak Russian whenever he can. He's getting pretty decent, he thinks.

 

Yuri appears to not be on board with it today. “You're on vacation, Katsudon, and so am I,” he says. “I'm not going to sit around for twenty minutes every time you need to translate something into Russian.”

 

“You're right,” Yuuri replies. “We're in Japan, after all. What happened to your Duolingo studying?”

 

Yuri grabs his phone from its place beside him, as if to stop Yuuri from stealing it to judge what amounts to the fragmented Duolingo skills-tree of someone who is struggling with kanji and counters. “It's fine,” he says. “I can read lots of the food labels at the 7-11.”

 

“Very important,” replies Yuuri, earnestly.

 

“Where's Viktor, anyway? Has your family chosen him as their new kid, over you?”

 

Yuuri has to laugh at that, because it's very nearly true. His parents adore Viktor. They say it's because he's sweet and attentive. This is correct, of course. Viktor is very sweet and unbelievably attentive. He also doesn't have the Japanese proficiency to drop the devastating truth bombs he manages effortlessly in English and, Yuuri presumes, Russian. He is also on his best behaviour with the Katsukis, as he is under the baseless assumption that they are ready to lynch him for taking their son to Russia after such a short spell in Hasetsu.

 

“Yes,” Yuuri says, realising he has been silent for a short while. “And he doesn't get the appeal of watching the rain, either.”

 

“Too many Russian winters,” Yuri offers. “I like it, though.”

 

“Me too.”

 

They settle into a comfortable silence. Yuuri takes a moment to consider his young friend. He's looking through the sheet of rain as if searching for the boy that would likely return any minute from a waterlogged jog. The last six months have seen Yuri shoot up just shy of three inches, standing a little taller than Otabek but not quite as tall as Yuuri. He seems older, though his face hasn't changed much.

 

It's not as though Yuuri believes there's some sudden personality shift that takes place when you start sleeping with someone for the first time. Granted, Phichit knew immediately upon seeing Yuuri that he'd “finally bedded Nikiforov”, as it was phrased, but Phichit might be a wizard. Or who knows, maybe there _was_ some new kind of vibe radiating off of him at that banquet. He decides he will check with Phichit later, for science.

 

Yuuri doesn't see a new, world-wisened teenager beside him. He sees a boy who has rushed through milestones that Yuuri himself has only just reached, with a confidence that is just short of recklessness. Yuuri has been occasionally called upon for advice, viewed as some kind of guru on the merits of simply being a few months ahead. The two of them had managed to speak heavily in code and hand gestures for a good ten minutes, back in Russia, about how pre-sex hygiene works and Yuuri can't help but wonder if maybe the internet would have been a better resource for that topic. At least he likes to think he is capable of giving advice on that matter. All other Yuri-specific relationship concerns, though? As if Yuuri knows what to say when Otabek being multiple time-zones away starts getting to Yuri more than usual. As if he knows what it's like to be separated from Viktor in any real way at all.

 

“Do you wish you met Viktor earlier?”

 

Yuuri considers this question. He's not quite sure of the parameters set for the hypothetical and anyway, he has technically known Viktor for half his life. He knows that's not what Yuri means, though.

 

“Earlier, like your age?” he asks.

 

“I guess. Whatever age to make the four years difference not weird,” Yuri says.

 

“I think we met when we needed to,” Yuuri says diplomatically and, he hopes, wisely.

 

Yuri makes a dissatisfied noise. “I don't know what I expected,” he says, stretching a leg out far enough past the edge of the decking, so that his foot gets rained on.

 

“Do you wish you met Otabek later?” asks Yuuri. “Is that what you're worrying about?”

 

“I wish I'd met him when we were at Yakov's stupid camp thing,” Yuri replies, picking his words carefully as if from a pile of muddled thoughts. “But I kind of wish we could have waited a few more years, too.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Who the hell will take this seriously?” Yuri asks, seemingly dumbfounded that he's being questioned at all. “I mean, _I_ do and he fucking better but we're teenagers and no one thinks teenagers can make this shit work,” he explains.

 

Yuuri raises his eyebrows. “Since when you care about what people think?” he challenges.

 

“I don't!” A pause from both parties apparently translates to disbelief. “Don't look at me like that! I seriously don't care, but what if Beka does and he decides this is stupid and hard and what if he believes that asshole on Instagram who said I'll break up with him if I get really tall?”

 

Yuri has to catch his breath after his little rant, and Yuuri struggles to hold back a smile. “I really don't think he'll mind if you get tall,” he says, slowly.

 

“He already curls up all tiny with you,” says Viktor, who has stepped outside and heard enough to jump right in. “He is obviously ready and waiting to be the short one.”

 

Yuri looks between each of them, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

 

Yuuri wonders if this is what people think of his own brand of anxious trash-talking to himself. It's funny and frustrating in equal measure.

 

A small ball of mild rage, Yuri huffs, “You're both meant to agree with me on everything so I can be mad at you. Fuck!”

 

Viktor looks ready to respond to this, but is interrupted by shuffling pebbles and brisk, bouncy strides.

 

Yuri is about to turn around when he is pinned in place by a stocky body, drenched to the bone. It takes all of a second before he yells out in horror at his clothes being soaked through by Otabek, fresh and clearly liberated by his run.

 

As Yuuri and Viktor walk back inside, Yuuri's mother cheerfully walks past them, towels in hand so that the two small ones – her words, not Yuuri's, as if he'd dare – don't drip all over the tatami.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Even more days after_

 

 

“I think you'll have to take my word for it,” Otabek explains as he struggles to translate why an article about him, written in Kazakh, comes off as so click-baity. He wasn't feeling particularly competitive about this little game, but now he's feeling bummed out that Viktor is winning so convincingly at having the most click-bait written about him on the internet. It's not surprising, since he has won the most and been around the longest, but _still._

 

Yuri was all about this contest until about ten seconds ago. He has since become transfixed by a photo of someone holding a small, white animal in their hand. “Beka,” he says, holding up his phone so that it blocks Otabek's view of an article about JJ. “Look how round this mouse is.”

 

Otabak considers the mouse. “It's very round,” He responds, appreciatively.

 

Otabek notices Yuuri listening in on their exchange. Conversations conducted in English have begun to exhaust him just a tiny bit, though he knows for all he is tired of conversing in a language he's not totally confident in, Yuuri is almost crumbling with guilt over not speaking enough Russian yet to use it smoothly.

 

He definitely understood the exchange about the mouse, despite it being in Russian. Otabek briefly considers praising him, before deciding it would come off as condescending. He pats Yuri's hair softly instead, drawn to it like a beacon.

 

His focus on articles about himself lost for now, Otabek enlarges an image of Leo de la Iglesia. It's a winter sports magazine, Leo the cover boy of the issue. He reads aloud a passage of writing designed to draw the reader into this oh-so-revealing article about Leo, quickly switching over to the English-Russian Google translation toolbar to piece together a particularly unfamiliar phrase.

 

“You'll never believe what Leo _really_ thinks about gerrymandering.”

 

Yuuri snorts, then smothers a giggle. “That's so stupid. I think Leo wins,” he declares, before launching into an explanation of gerrymandering in the United States.

 

It takes all of about two minutes before Yuri yawns and sits up, declaring his political education for the evening complete. “Bed?” he murmurs quietly, nuzzling into the crook of Otabek's neck, as though drunk with sleepiness.

 

The last few nights have ended this way – quiet, comfortable conversation in a common area of the inn before someone gets too tired to navigate second or third languages and starts a chain reaction where everyone crawls off to bed. Yuri's sleepiness, while authentic, often dissolves somewhat once they settle down in their nest of carefully arranged futons for the night. Otabek generally finds that, once the minty fresh kisses start, he doesn't feel so sleepy either.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The day after that_

 

 

Viktor had been neither here nor there about inviting Yuri and Otabek down to Hasetsu prior to their string of upcoming ice shows in Tokyo, Nagoya and Osaka. It hadn't even been Yuuri's idea. Or Yuuko's. Minako had been the one who, upon hearing that Viktor and Yuuri were stopping by for a while, insisted that Yuri come along as well. Something about ballet school student retention.

 

It kind of went without saying that Otabek would be invited along as well. It wouldn't have been worth spending yet another fortnight with Yuri alternating between being a loud brat and being a silent brat tapping away at his phone.

 

Things are going surprisingly well, is Viktor's current assessment. He's aware that he does occasionally exaggerate things and that Yuri has been more pleasant in recent months. Otabek has most certainly been a factor, but so too has Yuuri. The extra skater to compete with for independent ice time is brought up quite a lot, but sharing a ballet studio has yet to upset Yuri. Viktor's ballet regimen is superficial at best and so perhaps he doesn't get the bond between actual, passionate dancers. Or maybe he's overthinking it and Yuri just happens to share the opinion of Viktor and the entire world regarding Katsuki Yuuri's ass in tights.

 

About two hours after Minako steals the two dancers for whatever clinic she has conjured up, Viktor and Otabek find themselves walking toward the studio together, having enjoyed some peaceful time alone in separate rooms of the inn until now. Otabek is a calm presence of purposeful steps and carefully chosen words. Viktor is enjoying their chat. He enjoys hearing how people conduct themselves in various languages. He enjoys making Otabek practice French with him, even though a year of training in Montreal hardly puts Otabek's French in the same basket as Viktor's fluent second language.

 

Otabek is chipper in Russian. His English is good, but not particularly emotive or assured. Some of his Russian pronunciations are ever so slightly different and even without asking, Viktor can tell that Yuri probably finds it extremely adorable, because Yuri thinks everything about Otabek is uniquely perfect. Viktor occasionally – if he's being generous – finds Yuri to be exhausting but he can't help but appreciate the show the pair put on without even realising it. He can't begrudge the adorable small ones their love when he himself has only really learned the magic of it himself.

 

He had said nearly those exact words to Yuuri the night before, after making the grave error of walking past their companions' guest room and hearing a few things he could have lived a happy life never hearing.

 

The studio is across the street and they haven't crossed the road yet because Otabek is photographing an orange cat.

 

“That's Kingyo-chan,” Viktor says. “It means 'goldfish'.” He met a lot of Hasetsu pets while Yuuri did his ballet training.

 

Otabek touches the cat's nose. “Goldfish?”

 

“Yeah,” replies Viktor. “I think their child named it.”

 

The name of Yuri's beloved ragdoll cat hangs in the air awkwardly. Neither of them address it.

 

“You found a cat!”

 

Yuri's call from across the road is too loud for such a tranquil street, and he darts toward Viktor and Otabek, a sweaty vision in purple tights and a messy ponytail. Yuuri makes his way over with less hurry, tragically wearing sweatpants over his ballet tights.

 

* * *

 

 

_One last day before Tokyo_

 

 

“What the fuck. Why are you so much better at this than me?” Yuri asks as Otabek quickly identifies all the onigiri varieties in the 7-11.

 

Otabek selects two: one tuna mayonnaise and one umeboshi. “I don't know, Yura. You have an actual, flesh and blood Japanese person that you could practice with every day. Why aren't you better at this than me?”

 

The question is asked with a teasing lilt and Yuri, in a gesture he offers only Otabek, chooses to take it in the spirit it's given.

 

“I didn't want to have an unfair advantage, obviously,” he replies, and grabs two salmon onigiri before heading towards the snacky breads and cakes. Yakov would kill him but that's what makes it all so delicious.

 

Otabek follows after him, stopping at the fridges briefly to grab two bottles of water. “Let me tell you all the things I know,” he taunts, facing the label on the water bottle toward Yuri. “This says water but it's also the kanji for Wednesday.”

 

“Hey, I do know that one,” Yuri replies with a slight pout. He will not pout properly in a 7-11, not when there's so much delicious food here. He holds up a sandwich with strawberries and cream as filling. “Which one will kill Yakov and Lilia the most when they see me eating it on Instagram? This or the Chocopan?”

 

“Definitely the sandwich, although I don't know if I approve of it either.”

 

Yuri grabs the sandwich and a couple of small, plain buns for later. “I'm always surprised by how sweet these are,” he says, glancing over the packaging before deciding he doesn't actually want to know the sugar content.

 

“Kind of like you,” Otabek says, picking his own snacks.

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“You know,” he continues. “Japanese bread and Yuri Plisetsky. Both surprisingly sweet.”

 

Yuri almost drops his food. They're talking at a regular volume, but at least the girl behind the counter probably doesn't understand Russian. Yuri has only just learned how to calmly absorb words of praise whispered in his ear as Otabek comes undone beneath him, behind closed doors. This is in a convenience store. This is basically _indecent._

 

He shuffles closer to Otabek and places his forehead against the temple of this guy who says crazy, blunt, honest, ridiculous things to him. “That's so fucking stupid,” he says, muffled by awkwardness and hair. “Why are you like this?”

 

Otabek says nothing, but laughs quietly and gives Yuri a quick squeeze before heading towards the counter.

 

The girl behind the counter slides her phone out of view, and Yuri pretends not to know that she definitely just took a photo. He'd take a photo of them, too. They're fucking adorable.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> me: i really want more fics with lots of skating
> 
> also me: writes zero skating into any of her fics ever
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi to me on Tumblr! ](http://marochre.tumblr.com)  
> Art coming shortly!


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